From Beneath A Burning Sun
by Hel-Lokisdotter
Summary: There are two sides to every fight, without exception. This is the untold story of the War of the Ring, seen from the losing side; the Haradrim are fighting for land, for honour, and for vengeance. Two sides in every fight, and both have their reasons.
1. Fighting For Freedom

**Disclaimer: **Middle-Earth and Lord of the Rings belongs to the estate of JRR Tolkein. The huge majority of characters in this fic, however, do not.

**A/N:** The first thing you should know before reading on is that almost every character in this fic is an OC. If you don't want to read about OCs, then this is probably not the fic for you, and now would be a good time to stop reading.  
The second thing you should know is that this only half-involves the culture Tolkein described in such detail, as the Haradrim in this story lump together Northerners in much the same way as Northerners lump together the Haradrim in canon. Again, if you want to read about those cultures in particular, I would suggest you find another story.  
The third, and last, thing you should know is that, although this shares few of the characters or places, this is still Lord of the Rings. I do try to stick relatively close to canon, but if you see something I've missed, I would love you to point it out, please. The same goes for all aspects of the story, of course - in short, the time-worn 'concrit=love'.  
Enjoy!  
**ETA: **This is now the new (and hopefully improved) version. If anyone has concrit, though, please share it!

**1**

"Get your feet moving, and your eyes forwards!" an officer's voice rings out from behind him, and he hears the whip crack, hears one of the soldiers scream as the lash comes down on some poor fool's back.

Not his, though. And for that, he is thankful.

It has been a long time to travel – a long time, and a long way, with light-shod feet blistering and callousing against the earth that is hard and intransient. He longs for the sands and the burning skies of the desert he has always called home. But they are long ago and far away, a memory and nothing else.

But it is worthwhile. He knows that, with the stubborn, proud certainty that all his people share. Worthwhile, however much the pain and suffering may grow. Worthwhile, to avenge the indignities that Gondor have heaped upon his people – upon _all_ the people of Harad – since time immemorial. That is the thought that keeps him marching, keeps his pace good and his spirits high, and he knows it is a thought that all of them share.

He is tall, like all of his race – nigh on six foot, and growing still – and, like the rest of them, he shares the deepset gold eyes and dark brown skin of the people of Al-Sina. His long black hair is tied in a warrior's style; thin, neat plaits, woven through with gold threads, fall dark against his scarlet tunic, his brass corslet. In his belt, there is a scimitar, on his shoulder, a bow. He is dressed as a warrior, armed as a warrior, thinks he is a warrior.

He is no warrior. The older soldiers, who march alongside him with their notched blades and their scarred faces, know that much. He is not a warrior; he is a seventeen-year-old boy, still old enough to be proud of the few dark hairs clustered on his chin. And he will die that way, unless he grows up very, very quickly.

But Imial Zahiir thinks he is a warrior. He walks with his head high, the weight of the armour unfamiliar on his shoulders, occasionally grabbing at the bow that is poorly-balanced on one shoulder. And he is not afraid.

At least, he is not afraid until Mahoomed, his cousin, Mahoomed who had been so proud to be riding with the _mûmakil _warriors, Mahoomed who had parted ways with him only the day before, with a solemn injunction not to meet again until they had spilt Northern blood – he is not afraid until that Mahoomed suddenly clutches at his throat with a strangled cry that cuts through the air. Until Mahoomed falls from his seat, hangs for a moment seemingly in midair, and then tumbles in a great rush, away from the _mûmak_, with an arrow lodged in the shallow hollow of his throat, and lands with a crash on the path beside them.

And _then_ fear blooms in him, like blood on a clean shirt, and in the tense silence that follows, he finds himself choking back tears of panic and of loss. His bow is in his hands before he's even drawn breath, loaded and tensed to fire, but he cannot see the foe anywhere, anywhere at all. And then there is shouting – _Northerners! Northerners!_ – and then more shouting, in a tongue he does not recognise – _To me, men of Gondor, to me!_ – and then arrows are flying, and he sees a white face, surrounded by dark hair, and he shoots.

The shot goes wild, but at the other side of the battlefield, Faramir son of Denethor feels its wind by his face as he ducks, and thanks the Valar that it was not an inch lower. Imial neither notices this nor pays it mind, because the battle is thick around him now, the air dark with arrows. The gold collar around his neck turns aside one such, sending it skittering up into his chin, and he winces; there is blood on his skin now, hot and cloying, and fear chokes him.

"Mahoomed!" he shouts, because he can see his cousin struggling back to his feet, blood bubbling from between his lips, and then there is a Northerner there, tall and ugly and strong, and Imial lunges forwards, throwing his bow aside and pulling the scimitar loose from his belt. _This_ is his weapon, _this_ feels a greater comfort to him, and for a moment, he almost believes that he can do it, that he can somehow, impossibly, save the boy he grew up with, save his cousin, his friend.

And then, suddenly, real time and real fear rushes back, and he dives between Mahoomed and the Northerner, tears flying from his eyes and sweat beading on his brow, and brings his blade up to catch the pale man's broadsword as it sweeps down. He sees the cold grey eyes of his enemy, like hard iron, and he knows he will get no mercy here. This is an earnest battle, such as he has never fought before, and he will get no mercy, so he must show none. And in the Northerner's cruel, arrogant features, he sees all the tales he has been told about the persecution of his people, the evils of their people, and hate rises up in him like a storm. It is no longer fear for Mahoomed that drives him; it is pure rage and utter loathing. There is crimson on his blade, and there is crimson wetting his scarlet tunic, and there is crimson hanging in beads in his black hair. He no longer knows what is his blood and what is the Northerner's, but it is the Northerner's guard that drops, not his, and it is the Northerner's head that flies through the air, severed in a swing that he didn't know he had in him.

And then he remembers Mahoomed, and then he turns, only to find that his cousin, swaying on his feet with the arrow still lodged in his throat, has been confronted by another of the hated Northerners, and before he can move a muscle, right before his eyes, another Northern arrow, fletched with those terrible green feathers, strikes Mahoomed in the back of his neck, and the Northerner, not content with such a murder, has driven his blade into Mahoomed's shoulder, and there is blood in Mahoomed's hair, drowning out the gold…

And then Mahoomed, Corba's son, Imial's cousin, Raheli's husband, lurches forwards with a noise that Imial thinks, banally, stupidly, is rather like a goat being slaughtered. His foot catches on the Northerner's, and he trips, falling in a trail of blood from the edge of the bank they stand on.

Imial sees him fall, sees him crash face-down onto the ferns at the bottom with a horrible, meaty thud, thinks he sees movement nearby. And he turns swiftly, shouting "_Ware! Ware!_" but the words are barely out of his mouth before they come back to him, like an echo but not an echo, at the edge of the group he has strayed from; "_Ware! Ware!_" and he sees 'Uman, with the dark skin and red war-paint of the Razei, beside him, sees fear in the older man's eyes. And then, the mûmak has broken free from the trap, the cowardly trap, set for them by the Northerners, and it is charging straight at him, down the steep bank, and in front of him, there is 'Uman again, eyes bulging and face grey, shouting again and again "_Ware! Ware!_" But 'Uman cannot take his own advice, because suddenly there is a spray of blood, and the old Razei clansman who fought once beside Imial's own father, in the long-off distant past when their two races were in alliance, the man who taught Mahoomed to ride the mûmakin the first place, the man who beat Imial soundly for sneaking rations and then gave him spare in atonement, is suddenly skewered on the barbed tusk of the great _mûmak_, his broken body tossed aside as the great beast flees blindly. On the creature's neck, the tribesman from jungles Imial has never seen lurches to and fro, clinging on with hands and knees and teeth beside the smashed canopy of the saddle. Only the day before, he had been telling them stories of the thick green canopies of his own land, and now he is going to die, Imial knows he is going to die, and Imial himself barely escapes being crushed under the mûmak's great feet, diving to the side and rolling through the fresh ferns, so bright and green compared to the deserts of his homeland, but somehow less fair, and he hears screaming, and realises it is his own.

"_Ware! Ware!_" he shouts, again and again, his throat sore now with every rasping breath. "_Ware! __Mûmak! Ware!_"

If they do not hear me, he thinks frantically, they must be deaf, and he shrieks it again, stumbling upright in the deep ferns and fumbling for the handle of his scimitar. "_Ware! WARE!_" And there is nausea rising in his throat, and there is blood cloying on his face, his and Mahoomed's and 'Uman's, Sinaen and Razei and Northern, and then his hand closes around the hilt of his sword, and he is sprinting up the slope again, screaming now in rage, not fear, and beneath the blood that smears his face, he no longer even looks human. Spit flecking his lips and clinging to the beginnings of a beard on his chin, he throws himself forwards at the Gondorians, but it is too late, it is always too late, and he is tackled to the ground by a swarthy Easterner, who is missing an arm now and has an arrow trapped between two of the plates of his corslet, but who is still very much alive and very much active.

"Let them be, boy!" he grinds out, his bearded face very close to Imial's. The young Sinaen can smell rotten meat on the soldier's breath, hot on his face, and although he speaks the tongue of the desert tribes, it is with the accent of a coastsman. "There's no way out of that now, once you're into it! They're dead meat, and if you go after them, you will be, too! Better to leave the Northern bastards standing, and be there to fight them off later!"

Imial nods, wide-eyed, thinking wildly that he might be as frightened by this stranger – who might very well be Haradrim, but is not from any Haradrim race that the young Sinaen has ever come across – as he is by the prospect of death, as he is by the prospect of the Northerners.

Seeing the terror on the young man's face, the warrior's expression softens a little. It may have been long, long indeed, since his first battle, but he can still remember the horror of it all. As soon as he is sure that the brass-armoured young man will not storm back into battle at the drop of a hat, the older man stands up.

As soon as the weight is lifted off him, Imial rolls over, onto his hands and knees, and vomits. He should be ashamed, he knows, to be such a coward that battle makes him sick, and it will be something that he knows will haunt him for years, but he does it anyway, his throat rising in protest against the smell, the sight, the very _idea_ of this battle.

And when he is done, he stands up again, sheltered from view by the ferns and by the hill, and wipes his mouth. The coastsman is watching him still, with grim amusement showing on his weathered countenance, and Imial flushes.

"Don't worry about it," the older man advises him gruffly, picking up an abandoned bow – not Imial's, which is no doubt still lying at the crest of the hill where he threw it, but close enough – and passing it to him. "You aren't the first to be caught ill by your first fight."

"It's not my first fight," Imial protests, but weakly and unconvincingly, and the coastsman is not fooled for a minute.

"There's no shame in it," he says, casting about for abandoned arrows. "Be glad that the marauding Northerners have no interest in your deserts, and that your clan have passed a lifespan in peace."

That isn't exactly true, Imial thinks, and remembers with a shudder the wars between the Sinaens and the Mihilae; remembers huddling in a sand-covered tent while the men outside fought to and fro like thunder. But that was a long time ago, when he was still a child and he says nothing but a rather embarassed, "Thank you."

"Don't think it," the coastsman says with a shake of his head, and bows in the fashion of the coast, arms crossed over his chest – and his severed arm makes an effort to cross, although past the elbow there is only a bloody mess, and it does little more than twitch towards the other.

Imial watches, fascinated, and only just remembers to return the bow, hands clasped behind his back in the Sinaen manner.

"Gamba Qayyum," the coastsman says, and it takes Imial a moment to realise that it is an introduction. "From the tribe Yara of the western shores."

"Imial Zahiir." He pauses for a moment, considering the utter banality of the situation, of polite introductions here, now, with drying vomit crusted around his mouth and rivulets of darkening crimson spilling over his face, of manners and etiquette in these strange lands, with the Northerners still prowling around all of a hundred yards away. "From the tribe Al-Sina of the central deserts."

"Well met, friend, and pleasant days," Gamba says, as is the custom, and, as is the custom, Imial replies with, "May they be long to you and short to your foes," although he can't help feeling that, after today, wishing anyone long days is a stretch.

"Indeed," Gamba says with a nod, formalities over, and Imial notices that, although his right arm if destroyed beyond all use, his sword arm is not; from the practiced way he grasps his scimitar, the Yaran has been very lucky to be born left-handed. "Now, if we'd not change those two wishes around, we'd best hurry." He indicates with a nod of his head that Imial should follow him, and then he's away, sword held low and ready, crouching through the poor cover of the ferns and running.

Slinging the bow over his shoulder and checking the quiver at his belt, Imial mimics the Yaran's low, defensive posture, scuttling through the deep green after him. His bright uniform, brass and scarlet and gold, which he was so proud of only an hour or so before, now seems a hideous, garish thing, a beacon for Northern arrows, and he wishes with all his might for duller garb. Every one of his footfalls seems to make as much noise as a herd of mûmakil, and with every passing second, he expects one of those accursed green-flighted arrows to strike him between the shoulders. Gamba seems perfectly serene as he sneaks onwards, and Imial envies him that ease.

The Sinaen has no idea how long they have been running, halfway between road and forest, when the Yaran in front of him stops dead, raising a hand. Stop.

Imial does, breathing heavily, grateful for the respite. He has always been a good runner, but now he finds that running freely over shifting sands is not at all like the quick, sneaky rush of the last few minutes. His breath is coming heavy, and his heart is pounding. To his horror, he can taste fresh vomit in his mouth, and he spits hurriedly onto the earth.

"You'll have to get better at that," Gamba tells him, not unkindly. "With the damned pale soldiers attacking us so often now, it's a skill you can ill do without – and I can hear your breathing from a mile away."

Imial accepts the criticism, as he has been taught, bows his thanks for it, as he has been taught, and is surprised when Gamba cuffs him around the jaw.

"Don't bother with that here, boy. There's few enough who appreciate it, and too much politeness can get a man killed."

"But… back on the slopes…" Imial stammers, his voice stumbling over the twin blocks of breathlessness and confusion.

"I needed you to wait," Gamba said. "And if you make a little noise while a lot is going on already, men don't notice it continue afterwards. Trust me."

And Imial does. He trusts the Yaran implicitly, although they have only just met. Perhaps, he thinks, that is how war is.

How war is…

And then his mind goes back to Mahoomed, choking on his own blood as he fell, and he finds himself crying, in big, childish gulps that thoroughly embarrass him. Again, Gamba simply watches, as he did when the Sinaen was vomiting, and when Imial is done, he claps him lightly on the shoulder.

"That lad who fell first…" he says thoughtfully, and Imial looks up, surprised. "…Friend of yours?"

Imial shakes his head. "Cousin."

Nodding, Gamba sits down next to him, well aware that the Sinaen must be thoroughly humiliated by this show of emotion, and says, "It's always hard when you see someone you know go down. And that was a nasty way for it to happen."

Imial is giving every impression of not listening, but it's obvious that he feels a little better for the reminder that he's not alone. "What do we do now?"

"What do we do?" Gamba sighs, chewing thoughtfully on his thumbnail. "We do as we are told. We bind our wounds and bring our survivors together, and then we do what we were brought here to do."

Imial wipes his eyes, picking at the dried blood on his face. "Mordor?"

"Mordor."


	2. Fighting For Shelter

**2**

Mordor.

He's never seen it before, but he knows from the moment he crests the hill and sees it laid out there, in front of him, that it is what his people call _shal-anyam_; dark, mysterious, sly. Evil coils around it like a snake. Like a snake, he also senses immediately, it is not an evil that suffers any order but its own. He remembers the stories; how Morgoth rose and fell, how his lieutenant Sauron rose in his place… This is not a human evil.

But like a snake, too, like the broad, venomous sidewinders that frequent his homeland, it can be turned to use. Young though he is, Imial is well aware that a force such as this cannot be tamed. Nonetheless, there is a part of him, as there is in all the people of Harad, he knows, that thinks that a force so strong, working towards the same aim, can only be an ally. _The enemy of my enemy is my friend_, as they say in the North. He thinks this is true, if only because the alternative – that they really are allying themselves with a new conqueror; that they are giving up so many of the sons of the desert – and the jungles and the coasts, he supposes – for a wild dream – is too hideous even to consider.

Behind him, Gamba, who has been just about _everywhere_, as far as Imial can tell, and has presumably seen much worse, simply sighs deeply, relieved, and pushes the young man lightly in the small of the back. Imial blinks, not having realised that he has frozen in place, hypnotised almost by the great black gates of Mordor. Looking around, though, he is grateful to notice that he is not the only one staring in rapt horror; of the ragtag band of a hundred or so Haradrim, he sees at least ten or fifteen others just as captivated. All of them are his age, give or take a few years – nobody older would let their mind wander so easily, he chides himself – but at least he is not alone.

And now, looking properly at their little platoon, he notices things that he has never noticed before; the oldest man, the youngest… in the surviving Haradrim, there is barely a common factor. Skins range from that almost as white as the Northerners', to a sort of sallow tan, to the deep, deep black of the Tahali. He sees uniforms in scarlet, in crimson, in white, black, bronze, iron. He sees weapons that range from the scything, bladed flails carried by the Kishuka, to the spears and scimitars of his own people, to a strange set of bladed discuses that the youngest of them – a brown-skinned lad of about twelve or thirteen, who Imial realises with a shiver of mixed revulsion and envy is probably already a more seasoned soldier than he himself – carries in a rack of leather straps over one shoulder. He guesses that there are no less than seventy or eighty tribes represented here, and even to his uneducated eye, there cannot be fewer than ten entirely separate races.

Gamba knows better, of course. In his own mind, he has carefully been taking account of every last man with them – and they are all men here, even the Sinaen, who had been a mewling, pissing whelp before the battle. He knows that the oldest of them is sixty-three and the youngest is eleven. He knows that there are precisely eighty-nine Haradrim there – and unconsciously finds himself using the Northern word, the only word he knows to encompass all the southern lands – and that of those, nineteen first saw battle three days ago, among them the Sinaen he has begun to think of as his boy. He has also been around long enough that the knowledge – picked up quite innocently while setting up camp – that the youngest of them, Ashk, fought _his_ first battle at the age of seven does not surprise him one bit.

What _does_ surprise him, though – what surprises both of them, probably all of them – is the sudden realisation that these are all one army.  
Before, when there were hundreds – thousands – of them in the army, it was easy to forget that. The tribes closed into their own close-knit groups, each regarding the others with a sort of semi-benign suspicion.

And now there are eighty-nine of them, and perhaps the closest thing to a clan group is the five or six Mendean archers who cling together as though joined at the hip. Besides that, tribesman after tribesman finds himself standing alone; the lucky few have another of their tribe with them, but only the Mendeans have more than that.

And nobody is fighting. Nobody is killing each other, nobody is bringing up the rapes or the killings or the thefts that have so long sparked warfare across the wide jungles and the wider deserts. Imial stands next to a Mihilman, who for all he knows may have been one of those very warriors who led the charge against Al-Sina those years ago, and neither of them so much as glare at one another.

Because it doesn't _matter_. They are comrades now, not rivals. And the Mihilman – Nitin, his name is – caught Imial when he would have fallen into one of the ever-present crevices in the earth, and Imial bound Nitin's arm when it became septic.

And now they stand here, staring out at the Black Gate, and although every one of them thinks, in his own way, that the land is _shal-anyam_, many of them are thankful for it, too.

"Well, there it is," Gamba says, breaking the spell. Somehow, command has defaulted to him, without any prompting from anyone; there is, though, a sadness about that command, because war is no place for mercy, and all those who have fought before know that he will probably be near-useless in battle. Even left-handed, the loss of an arm will throw his balance until he has given himself the time to get used to it – and time is one thing they do not have. And he will be pushed to Gondor, because they all will be, and he will certainly die there.

"There it is," he repeats now, his teeth flashing white in a bright smile. "Mordor. Home's in sight."

It isn't, of course. Home is far, far away, and they all know it.

But the end of their journey, or at least of this particular stretch, is close. Glancing over at Imial, Gamba sees ill-disguised tears starting to his eyes – and the Sinaen is not the only one biting back tears. Many of the young men, who have dealt death for the first time, are equally emotional. Ashk, of course, has a rather disdainful look on his face; the near-disgust of a precocious youth finding he is better than his elders. Suddenly, Gamba knows that it is why he dislikes the boy so much; he has a sullen arrogance that would be galling enough in anyone, but combined with his complete disrespect for human life in general, he is hateful. His own race, the Yaran thinks moodily, may be merciless warriors and hunters, but Ashk's are cold-blooded murderers.

Besides the youngest of the company, though, the party are comforting the young men in the best way they can, which is to say, ignoring their tears completely. A few of the lads crying glance sidelong at one another, as though to make sure that they are not the only ones making such womanish fools of themselves, but no more than that.

They stand there for a moment, on top of the hill, in silent tribute to the hundreds who fell those few days ago. Then the eldest of the group, a fit-looking Tahali man with coal-black skin and a neat-cropped white beard, claps his hands sharply. "Well, it won't get any closer if all we do's stand and look at it. We're not there yet!"

With a chorus of groans – they are all hungry and thirsty, and most of them are exhausted from the long, ceaseless march – the little band starts forwards again on aching feet. Behind Gamba, Nitin pulls out a mostly-empty water flask, shakes it mournfully for a moment, then takes a gulp from it and passes it back to Imial, who nods his gratitude, but drinks little before passing it on. It is a pattern that is beginning to emerge; the desert folk, most of whom are used to long marches and dry climates, hold back from taking too much water, although they are, on the whole, just as thirsty as the others. It's a matter of pride. Ashk, Gamba is fairly sure, has only drunk once since they regrouped on the old road, and although his lips are dry and cracked, he seems to regard it as an achievement.

All of them, though, are in poor condition, nonetheless. There are several men walking barefoot, mostly from the jungles, and they are, without exception, leaving bloody footprints behind them in this barren, rocky land. The vicious thorns and jagged branches that seem to be the only things that grow here have gashed them all in various measures, and with so many of their packs left behind and no chance to retrieve them, they have been living on rations that, spread properly, would perhaps have lasted ten men for a day, at most. Besides Nitin's omnipresent flask, there are perhaps three other flasks, and a hastily-patched waterskin with a green-fletched arrow still lodged in the cork. Most of the wounds they suffered have been infected by one thing or another, and the remains of Gamba's arm had to be severed the night before, after the old man noticed the stink of gangrene about him.

But they are alive. Every last man who lived through the battle stands here now, each grumbling to his neighbour in whichever tongue best suits them.

And Mordor is in sight, _shal-anyam_ though it may be.

To Imial, born and raised in the burning deserts, the only think he sees about Mordor is grey. It all looks dull, as though he is looking at a world without colour. The light is cold, the sun is white, the clouds are grey. And Mordor stands at the centre of it all, larger and stronger than anything he has ever seen before. His people are nomads, and he is unused to solid buildings of _any_ size, but this… this…

As he walks forwards, and the walls begin to tower above him, he finds that his mouth is hanging open. He closes it quickly, and hears Nitin snort with laughter beside him. Looking over at the older man, though, the Sinaen can see just as much awe in his eyes.

"Hypocrite," he mutters, joshing the Mihilman.

"At least I don't think I'm descended from a star," Nitin replies mildly. The slur on the whole tribe of Al-Sina is obvious, but there is still amazement in his voice. "Valar, how do they _build_ all this?"

"Nobody knows that," the Tahalian says from behind them, scratching at his thick head of silver hair. "Leastaways, not a soul _I've_ come across."

"Well, it must have been built _somehow_…" Imial's voice is a little taut; as with most of them, any good humour is purely to disguise the fact that all he really wants to do is go home and sleep.

"Not necessarily," the Tahalian – and _damn_, Imial thinks, he wishes he could remember the _name_ – says smoothly. There's a certain agelessness to his voice, besides the deeply Southern accent with which he speaks their common tongue. "I mean, is't true what they say of Morgoth? For, if it's so, then here nothing's sure to have been built by human hands – or Orcish hands, neither."

"_Shal-anyam_…" Imial mutters, looking up at the dull grey sky, the fires of the distant Osgiliath the only light that comes close to the bright skies of home. The Tahalian – Babo, that was his name – looks baffled. Nitin, however, whose own tongue is a dialect of the same language from which the Sinaens' springs, knows what he means. For once, too, he doesn't tease.

He just nods, grimly, and says quietly, in his own tongue, "_Sheul-aneam_, indeed. But at least it's a resting place."

Imial nods back, fists clenching at his sides. "One small _shal-anyam_," he adds, although this place is not small by any man's terms. "A feeling. Against the whole proved _shal-anyam_ of the Northerners. I would stand by this place."

"Have you ever seen anything like it, though?" Nitin asks, still clearly awestruck. They are close enough now that the whole horizon is blocked out by the great, towering Black Gates.

"I…" Imial begins, in a voice of similar hushed amazement, but at that point, Gamba turns his head sharply.

"Hush!" he snaps back at them, putting a finger to his lips. "Fuck, we're supposed to be an _army_, not a piss-poor band of stragglers." He wrinkles his nose for a moment, and then admits, "Well, I suppose a piss-poor band of stragglers is what we _are_, but we could at least try not to act like it, don't you think?"

"And you look like you've never seen a wall before in your lives," Ashk adds from behind them, standing firm with arrogance in his eyes as all four of them – Imial, Gamba, Nitin and Babo – turn to glare at him.

"And I suppose you've seen all there is to see and been everywhere there is to go, have you?" Imial says hotly. "Arrogant, bloody-minded little…"

"Enough of that!" Gamba says sharply, cuffing the Sinaen around the back of the head. He may be one arm short, but the remaining one has more strength in it than in the whole of Imial's body. "Scrapping's for those without appointments to keep!"

Nodding sullenly as he regains his balance, head spinning from the force of the blow, Imial turns back towards the gates, pointedly ignoring the boy behind him, and keeps walking. Beside him, Nitin spins on his heel in total silence, Babo dropping back silently into the ranks – and they _are_ ranks now; something in Gamba's tone seems to be turning their ragtag little party into a platoon, if not an army – and marches along behind the Yaran, his face like thunder.

As they draw close to the Black Gates, voices begin to reach them; Orcish voices, the words running into each other, until only the sound remains, sound with no meaning. It halts in a low mutter of the Mordor tongue, though, as the sentries notice the little band of Haradrim, and then a voice shouts out in a heavily-accented version of the Harad tongue, "Name and business! We ain't letting a flea-ridden little gang like you in without 'em!"

"Garn, ain't letting 'em in noways, if they're who I think they are!" shouts another voice, deeper than the first. A large orc, leaning idolently on his spear, joins the first bow-legged little creature at the rail of the watchtower. Spitting, he glares at Gamba, who simply raises his chin and says nothing. The orc spits again, with rather better aim; a slightly greenish gobbet of saliva splashes on Imial's shoulder, and he has to restrain his nausea. "Yer a day late, if you're who I thinks you are! Where's the rest of you, then? Got scared and ran off home?"

"We ran into a spot of trouble with some Northerners," Gamba replies calmly. To most of the men behind him, though, it sounds like gibberish; Imial realises with a start that the Yaran is speaking the Northern Common Tongue, which fell into disuse in Harad long ago. "One of the mûmakil broke loose. Ran wild. It was bad enough before – they took us by surprise – but you must know that when a mûmak panics, it's not choosy about who it kills. I don't know what happened to the other mûmakil, but all the other men of our army I have seen have been corpses. If that suits you?" he adds almost snidely, although his tone remains entirely level.

"Suits us? Pah!" The first orc spits now – it seems to be almost a nervous tic with these folk, Gamba thinks with grim amusement – and glances at the second, larger one. "Suits us, he says, Shanik! Turns up with nuffin' we ain't got 'ere already, no mûmakil, no nuffin', and expects us to let 'em all in! What's it to us, some little boys outta the big desert? Take 'im, there." He points to Ashk, standing very still and firm and glaring up at them. "I'd bet his voice ain't even broke yet. Bet you still piss yerself without yer mam to 'elp! How old are you?"

"Eleven," Ashk says immediately, with admirable calm and worrying emotionlessness, and steps forward slightly. "Ashk Naze. From the tribe Ania of the southern forests. I would wish long days to you and short to your foes, but the first I do not wish and the second is certain while your foes are ours." With the shallow nod of the head and blow of the fist to the chest that count for a bow among his people, he steps sharply back into line, his hands dropping to the discuses at his sides.

The orcs stare for a moment, then burst into what might very well be laughter.

"Garn, Ashk Naze, but you ain't half a piece of work, are you?" the one called Shanik says, when he has calmed down enough.

"That is what we bring you," Gamba says. He has to repeat it twice before the orcs hear him properly. "This is what we bring you! Not mûmakil and not the thousand spears we promised, but there's ninety here who've proved themselves time and again." Ignoring their comments, he raises his voice slightly and says, still perfectly calmly, "Better ninety than none, so let us in."

Shanik, who seems to be the leader of the two, makes a face and clips the smaller orc around the ear. "Let 'em in, you brain-rotted idiot!"

"Who're you callin' a brain-rotted idiot?"

"Just let 'em in, piss-for-brains!"

Grumbling under his breath, the bow-legged little orc shuffles out of sight. Imial exchanges a glance with Nitin, neither of them having understood most of the preceding conversation, and both not entirely sure whether they have won this particular battle.

That question is answered for them, though, when with a great, pondorous groan, the massive gates begin to swing open. Automatically, every one of them looks to Gamba, who seems to know precisely what he is doing.

He waits patiently, not looking back at them, until the gates are halfway open, affording a good view of the walled land. Then, back still ramrod-straight, with his head held high and his remaining arm swinging loosely at his side, he steps forwards, unhurriedly. The rest of the party follow him, as one; some prop up injured comrades, as they have been doing for mile upon mile, and others have to limp rather than striding, but every eye is forwards, and every mouth is set in a cold, hard line.

They are well past the gate, and into a great, empty space where the ground has been worn to smoothness by passing feet, when Gamba relaxes slightly and turns to face them. "Thank you, Ashk," he says, quietly. "You handle yourself very well."

Ashk just nods, face expressionless. "I _am_ a soldier," he says calmly.

Imial, however, is not listening any more. Brushing the thick globule of the orc's spit off his shoulder and neck, he wipes it on his leg and looks around the massive courtyard. The hairs on the back of his neck are rising, and he can only think one thing.

_Shal-anyam._ Nothing in the whole world, not even in the hated North, could possibly be so very _shal-anyam_.


	3. Fighting For Family

**3**

"Seven!" The roar fills the cramped barracks, a mixture of triumph and resigned disappointment. There is no money to bet, but they bet anyway; a strange mixture of odds and ends changes hands, amid raised voices and arguments.

In the middle of the rough circle of spectators, Gamba raises his hand modestly, smiling. "A skill, a skill. Give me a number."

"Nine!" is the first to be called, then numbers are shouted from here and there and everywhere, the mounting excitement palpable.

"Nine it is," Gamba says mildly, when the tumult has calmed slightly. "Bets?"

Dead silence. Most of the soldiers ranged around him have already lost money, and are unwilling to lose more. In ten rounds, after all, he has never failed to throw the number given.

"I'll bet you my blades that I can throw a higher number than you." Ashk pushes through the suddenly silent crowd, his weapons, as ever, strapped across his narrow back, and sits down cross-legged opposite the Yaran.

"Never bet more than you can afford to lose, lad," Gamba cautions him. "I won't take that bet."

"Are you scared?" Ashk demands, narrowing his eyes.

"Only for you." There is a smile there, clear on the scarred brown face. "Don't push it. You may be a good soldier, but dice rely on chance."

"They don't for you," the boy snaps, snatching up the dice, "and they won't for me. My blades against yours, Yaran."

At the back of the press of soldiers, Imial finally gives up trying to see, and turns, wandering off. They have been in Mordor for three days now, and with the sudden supply of food – even in quantities that would seem scarce in peacetime – the whole group is growing fitter and healthier by the day. He still limps from the blisters of the long march, but they are healing, slowly and surely, and the stink of infection is gone from the small, scrupulously tidy room they all share.

"There's a new platoon coming in soon," a voice says from behind him, and he knows without turning, from the accent, that it is Nitin. "And we'll be leaving as soon as they arrive, for the North."

Imial nods, sitting down on the rough stone stairs and looking back at his friend. "We must hope for their sakes that they did not have an encounter with the pale ghosts, as we did. It will be hard enough for them, not being able to rest betweentimes." He does not even think to doubt what the older man says; over the last few days, Nitin has more than proved himself as a reliable informant.

"They bring mûmakil," Nitin goes on, lowering himself down next to the young Sinaen and pulling out his curved sword. As he rummages through his clothes for his whetstone, he looks over at Imial. "Mûmakil and men. Three thousand at least – the last of the army."

"And then we fight?" Imial asks, knowing the answer, as the Mihilman begins to run the whetstone along the edge of his blade.

Nitin nods. "And then we fight."

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, as Nitin sharpens his blade slowly and Imial pulls out an arrow and begins refletching it. Then, as he cuts the last feather to shape, the Sinaen looks up at his friend.

"Do you have family?" he asks curiously, replacing the arrow in his quiver. "Back home? A wife, children?"

The Mihilman thinks for a moment, looking wistful, then shrugs and goes back to his blade. "Engaged," he answers, with a smile. "Elina, her name is. She's beautiful – ten years my senior, and married once already, but beautiful." He laughs quietly, putting the whetstone aside and turning his attention to Imial again. "Before I left, she told me that she wants twenty Northerners for a dowry, or the wedding's off. I asked her if she wanted them living or dead, and she said she didn't care, but she has a thing for golden-haired men. I told her I should bleach it!" He laughs again, plucking at his shoulder-length black hair. His face is so comical that Imial finds himself laughing, too, and the release of it is immediate and striking.

"What about you?" Nitin asks, when they have stopped laughing. "Some raven-eyed beauty pining for you back in the land of the ever-star?" He bats his eyelashes, grinning. "Some Princess Mende locked away in your heart?"

"Princess Mende?" Imial asks, momentarily distracted. Nitin flaps a hand.

"Just an old story. So, do you?"

Imial laughs, the tips of his ears reddening. "No! Not yet, anyway. There's just me, my brothers, my sister Aaqila, and my mother and father."

"And your Uncle Corba, who you love as a brother," says a deep, laughing voice behind Imial, who jumps.

"Uncle!" He leaps to his feet, arrows forgotten, and almost leaps to embrace the huge bear of a man who stands behind him, before remembering that he is a soldier, and not a child. Checking himself, he clasps his hands behind his back and bows deeply. When he looks up, his eyes are sparkling. "Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

Then he remembers, and there is a more pressing issue at hand. "Uncle," he says slowly, lowering his eyes, "Mahoomed..."

"I know," his uncle cuts in, smile fading, before Imial can go on. "I heard. None of us were ever given a guarantee that we would return alive." But there are tears nestling in the deep lines at the corner of his golden eyes, and under his thick black beard, his mouth is set into a painfully tight line.

Standing up, Nitin silently takes his leave, slipping back up the stairs towards the distant roar of Ashk's temper. The instant the Mihilman is gone, Corba steps forwards and pulls his nephew into a tight hug, biting his lip hard. For a moment, shocked, Imial can do nothing but blink. Then, his lips trembling, he puts his arms around the great bear of a man.

"Raheli and Najiyya will not know until we return," Corba tells him sadly, and Imial can hear the tremble in his voice. "If we return at all." He looks down at Imial, sighing. "Alatar and Pollando drew far back from this conflict. Maybe we should do the same."

"Don't say things like that, uncle!" Imial steps back, fire blazing in his eyes. "The Blue Wizards are Northerners themselves, you know that! Why should we trust them to guide our path against the North? We will fight, and we will win. How can we not? We are united now."

"Now, and maybe never again," Corba murmurs, with a sigh. "But you are right, of course. After all these years of warring, oppression, treachery, we can at last defeat the Northerners. We will make them pay for the way they have treated the South all these years. We will make them pay for Mahoomed's death."

Imial smiles up at his uncle, and it is a man's smile; a warrior's smile. It speaks of blood.

"Yes," he agrees, baring his teeth. "We will make them pay."

"Demons of Azgaroth!" Nitin's voice cries from upstairs, and there is a crash as something heavy hits the wall. "Ashk Naze, you damned Ania bastard!"

Imial and Corba exchange glances. Then, suddenly and without warning, they both dissolve into laughter.


	4. Fighting For Honour

The laughter has faded. Cirith Ungol stands empty. The only sound that Imial hears now is the _tramp, tramp, tramp_ of a hundred thousand feet. The column stretches away in front of him and behind him, red and gold and yellow and black, filling the wide road as they march out of the Black Gates.

There is majesty there, he thinks. There is honour. But there are no smiles now.

This is a man's place. Not a boy's. He can never go back to how things were, he thinks dizzyingly, adjusting his bow on his shoulder. Not now. He had thought that the first army he had travelled with was vast; this one is ten times the size at least, of Haradrim alone. A few orcs – and he is still revolted by them, even now – slink between the Haradrim ranks, their small, dark eyes glaring, but the vast majority of the forces lie ahead of, or behind, the long, glittering column of Southern warriors.

By unspoken agreement, their little band has stuck together. Nitin marches beside him, spear in hand; behind him, the five Mendean archers stride along in step with one another, a perfect row. Babo flanks him on the other side, shield and spear both lashed across his broad back, but a wicked-looking hooked blade clasped in his gnarled hand. In front of him, Yasha, a Kishuka man with by far the palest skin of their company, travels with his heavy flails hooked in his belt and his hands swinging free by his sides.

Even Ashk, for all his petulance and temper, has elected to stay with this company that has become its own tribe. All of them have. They could no more deny this group than they could deny their own tribes at home, and it is a welcome closeness on a journey as strange as this.

Gamba is the only one talking; in the stilted, harsh sounds of the Northern Common Tongue, he is discussing something in hushed tones with the bandy-legged orc who met them at the Gates when they first arrived. Imial strains to hear, but with his knowledge of the Northerners' tongue rudimentary at best, he can only make out odd words. It doesn't take long before he gives up, concentrating instead on keeping his head high, his shoulders back, and his step proud. He is an honourable man, after all. He should show it.

The Nazgûl circle overhead, dark shapes in the grey, colourless skies, as they draw closer and closer to the Black Gates. Out of Mordor, he thinks, and finds to his surprise that the idea is a pleasant one. Out into the North, where the stories he has heard are of grass and trees growing as thick and verdant as those in the southern forests. A far cry from these grey walls and grey stone; in the North, he imagines, there is colour again. It will not be the golds and reds of the desert, of course, but his eyes cry for true colour. He finds himself longing for this march to be over, purely so that he can see these wonders, wasted and left to rot by the bloated Northmen who live among them. Longing to find out if the tales of fantastic beasts and strange plants that he has heard are true.

It will be a long way, of course. He knows that. They all know that. That distance, and the stretch of barren desert which the Northerners are not hardy enough to cross, are the barrier between the Haradrim and oblivion; between the Haradrim and invasion. As it stands, the Northerners must come by boat, or pass through Rhûn – as it stands, the Haradrim are as safe as they can be.

As it stands.

He thinks to himself, it will remain so. If we die, then Harad falls, but if we live, then Harad and the deserts will remain. Strong. Unified. Forever.

Gamba's thoughts are similar, as he turns away from the orc, conversation finished. Similar, but with one important difference; the Yaran knows that this war is not one that will be won. If we die, he thinks, touching the bandaged stump of his arm thoughtfully, then Harad may fall without its men. But if we live – is that better?

If they live, then what will happen once the Northerners know themselves to be defeated? Mordor will not stand by its allies forever, he knows that. Before long, if they win, the Eye will turn on Harad, weak, divided, and Gamba would not like to be there when that happens.

But he will fight, anyway. It is in his nature. His honour. And even with that knowledge that there can be no final victory, there is a glint of hope in his heart.

It is none of those which drives him to fight, though. It is the same flame which burns in every heart, from here to the furthest reaches of the Kishuka coasts; a flame which has burnt for centuries. It is the burning desire for _vengeance_.

The tales have been passed down for generations beyond counting; a cruel empire of Northmen, who would take and take and take, and never give back. A people grown fat on the wealth gifted them by the Valar, while the people of the deserts would thirst and fast for days on end, while the coast-dwellers lived in fear of the ever-present ships, and the forest tribes drew back deep into the shadows of their trees. A people who spoke with the tongues of snakes, words as slippery and false as any spoken by the Dark Lord. Tales of hostages taken by the cruel, proud Northerners, children barely out of their mothers' arms, slain for some small infraction they could not understand. And above it all, tales of a servitude that could not be broken; of the slow, creeping loss of all that made the Haradrim what they were.

There was a time, as the children of Harad have always been taught, when this servitude became too much, and the Valar took pity on their Southern followers. They sent a great plague upon the men of the North, and divided the house of Gondor against itself. The Haradrim rose up then, and every man who now marches can remember the words, in whatever language they were spoken; _a great storm of honourable men, from a thousand thousand nations, marched upon Umbar, and the clash of spear and shield was like thunder. The gold of their braids and the steel of their swords dazzled the Sun away, and the skin of the Northerners turned, from fright, as pale as it is today. They fled, cowardly and weak, and the South followed. The blood of the cruel kings ran in rivers, and so the men of the South regained their honour_.

That is why they march.

They need no more reason.

Harad is fractured, broken, and weak. It has lost its honour.

It is their duty to reclaim it.

And now, those words sing in every mind; _the gold of their braids, the steel of their swords..._

The sun is watery and pale in Mordor, when it is there at all, but it seems to brighten tenfold when it strikes the polished brass and gold of the Haradrim war-dress. And with every step they take, as half a million feet strike the ground at once, they raise a sound like thunder.

The mûmakil step heavy behind the column of Southerners, but still ahead of the men of Rhûn, who fall back to maintain the gap. Nobody, orc or Man, Easterling or Haradrim, wants to be caught near the mûmakil if they are panicked; least of all, Gamba's company, who have all seen first-hand the damage an angry mûmak can do.

But they march on, nonetheless. They rest little; they talk less. Barely a word is exchanged between the men as they march, besides orders and muttered complaints.

They have been walking for a week at least, and Imial is exhausted, when he finally voices his own doubts. He and Nitin are sitting, cross-legged, by the campfire. The night is alien; the stars are strange. He recognises Al-Sina, though, even here; it lies brighter than ever in the far West, and it reminds him bitingly of home.

"Where is the honour in this?" he asks Nitin, who is gnawing on a piece of black bread. The Mihilman shrugs maddeningly, and passes him a chunk of dried meat – Imial doesn't want to think what sort of meat it is.

He takes it anyway, wolfing it down, because he is hungry. But the question still hovers in the front of his mind.

Where is the honour in this? In defeating a nation that has not bothered with Harad for generations? Where is the honour in this long, dirty march, where the crack of whips rings out loudly every second of the day, and they know nothing any longer but to put one foot in front of the other; to go on walking for what seems like forever? The polished armour has been dulled by the dust of the road; the thunder of footsteps has died to a shuffle.

Where is the honour in this?

The next day, they are storming down the hills into lands greener and more verdant than anything the Sinaen boy has ever seen, with no time to gape at its wonders. They are diving in a great thunder towards where the Northerners cower in a city that has locked out the daylight, and the blaze of their swords and shields outdoes the sun.

And he thinks, wonderously, fearfully, _there it is._


	5. Fighting For Our Lives

**5**

They have clashed with the Northern armies twice already, and each assault left bloodied gashes in the ranks. But now, as a day breaks in darkness, there is triumph in the air. Victory is close. They can taste it.

The walls, tall, high, and white, are falling.

As they halt their fighting, sitting cross-legged in the long grass, Nitin and Imial raise their flasks to the idea. The blasts of explosions split the still air, as the Kishuki men bustle around their packs of strange powders and mixtures, and the crash of makeshift rams on stone is dull but loud.

The thought hangs unspoken in the air; _maybe._

Maybe they will survive.

Maybe _Harad_ will survive.

Maybe, somehow, impossibly, things will be all right. As they were. Better, because the North will be defeated.

"Are you looking forwards to it?" Imial asks eventually, gnawing idly on unleavened bread.

"To what?" Nitin blinks, looking up.

"The battle. Victory."

Nitin laughs. "Don't be so damn sure of yourself, Sinaen." Then, he sighs, in a way that makes it very clear that he believes it too, and his smile when he speaks is genuine, almost sheepishly so. "Yes."

"People will die."

"People always die, in war," Ashk says loftily, sitting down opposite them. "But then, I wouldn't expect _you_ to know that."

Imial grunts, his mood soured. "I know war perfectly well, thank you," he says shortly, and takes a large bite of his bread. "Don't be so damn arrogant, Ashk Naze." Clenching his jaw, he shoves his remaining rations at Nitin, then stands up sharply and stalks away into the torchlit darkness.

"Weakling," Ashk mutters, unlooping the rack of blades from his back and sorting through them carefully. Nitin watches him thoughtfully, but says nothing.

"A breach!" The cry comes only a few minutes later, spreading out in a ripple of released tension, in a hundred different languages, and is taken up across the whole, massive camp. Nitin stands up, a smile spreading across his broad face, and jogs away, sticking his sword back into his belt as he runs.

And, after a moment, Ashk follows him.

There are more breaches, in the next few hours, but none of them bring the same triumph or euphoria as that first. Mostly, it is the waiting that deadens the effect with each small victory; the Haradrim hang behind the orcs a little way, perhaps unwilling to enter such strange lands, perhaps merely unwilling to be closest in range of enemy arrows – even they do not know.

But eventually, beneath the beating crimson of their banners, they cross the border into the Pelennor Fields. Rivers of torchlight stretch before and behind, as far as the eye can see, and far beyond the point where faces and figures meld into solid darkness. Orcs, Haradrim, and Easterlings become one long, trailing ribbon of gold and red. Above, the Nazgûl wheel like vultures over the firelit shadows.

The march is stretching into hours, and the Haradrim are beginning to forget their earlier euphoria, when Gamba nudges Imial in the shoulder with the pathetic stump of his arm. "There!" he says aloud, nodding into the darkness. "Do you see them?"

The Sinaen takes a sharp breath, squinting, and nods. "Northerners!"

_Northerners_... The word floods out through the ranks, hissing and spitting. Hands fly to swords and to bows, but it is Gamba, and Gamba's company, who lead the charge. Ahead of the rest of the Haradrim, ahead even of the orcs, they fly through the tumult, all tiredness forgotten.

"Him!" Ashk spits, as they draw close enough for the riders to come fully into view.

Imial blinks. He can barely tell one Northerner from another even in the full light of day. But by the hateful looks on the faces of the others, the Ania boy only spoke the thoughts of them all.

Riding tall and cruel, with sword in hand and men behind him; the Captain of Gondor.

Hatred rises bitter in all their throats as Southern horsemen gallop past, crashing into the enemy like a thunderstorm. Ashk's blades are already hefted in his hands; Babo draws his spear, reversing it to throw; Imial and Nitin notch tainted arrows to their bows. Yasha, the thin Kishuka warrior, swings his bladed flails, diving forwards, step-for-step with Gamba.

As the Northern captain shouts something back to his men in the harsh, grating tongue of the North, the Nazgûl wheel in the dark skies, screaming, and dive like hawks for the kill. Imial's fingers tense against the string of his bow.

And then, a light – cold and colourless, like everything in this strange, deadly world seems to Imial – shines into the darkness. The Nazgûl screech, and men, not so distant, scream in pain and fear. From the cold, unfeeling walls of Minas Tirith, there rides forth a new threat; a new host of pale Northerners, and at their head, an old man dressed in white, with a look of terrible unfeeling upon his withered face. The Nazgûl screech again, shying away from the light as though it burns them.

Nitin grabs Ashk's arm, hauling the younger boy back as the Northern host sweep forwards like a flame. A sword tip passes inches before their faces, and the Mihilman drags Ashk back with the rest of the ranks, purely through strength. Behind them, Imial fires two arrows, without waiting to see whether they strike their targets, then turns and flees. His lungs burn for air, but it does not matter; behind him, swords and horses and spears clash in a rush of blood. Yasha turns to face the foe, flails swinging in broad arcs; the weapons strike one man, two, and then a sword sends his head rolling across the ground. Babo is fighting like a desert wind, now stabbing, now slashing, now using his spear as a sort of quarterstaff to strike the Northerners from their tall horses, but he is losing ground, driven ever back towards the routing forces of Mordor and the South.

Gamba is no longer even making the attempt. If there is one thing he knows, it is that honour and freedom and family mean nothing to a dead man – and that if he goes on fighting, a dead man is what he will be. He drops his scimitar, turns on his heel, and runs, grabbing Ashk around the waist and dragging him along, as the Ania boy breaks free of Nitin's grip with a well-aimed kick that leaves the Mihilman doubled over and gasping for breath.

"You're an idiot," Gamba tells Ashk as they reach the relative safety of the ranks, letting go of the boy's neck and plucking the bladed discus out of his hand. "And you," he adds to Imial, who is supporting a wheezing Nitin with one hand and holding his torch up with the other, "well done."

Imial blinks. "Well done?"

The Yaran jerks his thumb back at the procession of Northerners, with a smile. Following the motion with his eyes, Imial blinks in shock.

"I got him?" he whispers, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. His face is slack with amazement.

"You did," Gamba agrees, grinning. "Well done, lad."

And then Imial is surrounded by the rest of the company, exhausted and broken, but all summoning up smiles. Even Ashk nods to him, something like respect in his eyes.

"Perhaps this may break their spirit a little?" Nitin suggests, his smile broad and genuine despite the deep slash seeping crimson into the sleeve of his tunic.

But Babo, returning last of all of them with his spear and his shield bloodstained, shakes his head. "This is not like our warfare," he says, putting Yasha's head down reverentially on the ground and strapping his weapons back across his back. "This is bigger. Stone walls, armies of millions – I doubt the slaying of one man will sway the course so much. Unless he is the chief of this place – and I have heard that the chief of these Northerners is an older man even than I. That man, then, was not he." His face, brown and thick-featured, creases as he smiles. "But you struck a blow, true enough. Especially for us." He claps Imial on the back, hard.

The Sinaen boy smiles, swelling with pride.

Pride cannot last forever.

It is the next day – or night, it is so hard to tell in this artificial darkness – that the full weight comes crashing down on them. Triumph, pride, hope have risen in their breasts like flame, and the first circle of the strange, hard city has fallen to their fires. Victory is close, so close that they can taste it – around them, the scarlet tide of the Haradrim and the Easterlings crashes like the sea against the white cliffs of the walls, wearing them down, slowly, slowly, under the hail of arrows from above. Roaring and stamping, the mûmakil storm the high barricades, towers and saddles high on their backs. The air is sweet with the promise of battles won.

And then the horns blow in the near distance, bitter and harsh in the clashing air, and the Haradrim vanguard take up the call with horns of their own, melodious and horrific.

_Ware! Ware!_

"Ware! Northerners! Ware!" The call rises loud from a thousand throats, drowning out even the crashing and trumpeting of the mûmakil. As one, the Haradrim turn to the greatest of their chieftains, the general of all Harad, who, raising his own horn to his lips, blows one long blast and raises a hand. Behind his black horse, the banner of Harad unfurls; the black serpent seems to writhe in the firelight, ready to leap to the defence of its people.

"For the lands of the sun, and the honour of our fathers!" the general shouts, and his eyes blaze with the fury of a hundred enslaved generations. "We fight for them! And the clash shall be like thunder!"

"And the blood of the cruel kings ran in rivers," Nitin murmurs, and Gamba nods steadily, as the horsemen thunder forwards to meet the foe.

"And so the men of the South regain their honour."

But there is no such honour in this charge. The clash is like thunder, true enough, but the lightning is from the swords of the Northerners. Horror ranged in their looks, the Haradrim see the general's standard topple, crashing in the distance. The black serpent on the red banner seems to writhe in pain, to die among the flames reflected by the weapons of the clashing armies.

Shouting dismay, the remaining Haradrim horsemen swing their horses around, jolting them across the wide fields and far from the fell Northern blades. In a thousand voices, from a thousand throats, the roar rises to the skies.

_Alas! Alas for Haroun Ali, son of Yusuf, General of Harad!_

"A blood-red dawn," one of the Mendean archers says, from Imial's side. "Bad omens are written in these skies."

"Omens?" Ashk snorts derisively. "The day was ours, and will be ours again."

The Mendean says nothing; only shakes his head sadly and notches another arrow to his bow as the Northerners thunder across the plain between them.

But the storm of fell, white-skinned men does not reach them. From above, the greatest of the flying beasts sweeps down, bearing darkness with it, and it is the Northerners now who turn and rout, horses screaming in panic beneath them.

"What did you say of omens?" Ashk asks sardonically of the Mendean, who says nothing. "The dawn is bloody for the Northerners alone!"

"He falls!" Imial exclaims, his fist clenching in triumph and tension. "The Northern chieftain falls!"

"One of many," Gamba says grimly, shifting his grip on his sword. "But one may be enough, whatever Babo may say."

"One may," the old warrior replies calmly, unhitching his spear and his shield from his back, "if he is the right one. But we cannot rely on it."

"We can rely on nothing but ourselves," Gamba agrees, nodding shortly. "And on the men who come to strengthen us."

"Rely on no other man," Ashk murmurs, as though by rote. "And yet rely on every man. You fight as a unit, but also as a unit within yourself." He smiles, teeth flashing, as his blades glint in the dimness. It is not a pleasant smile. "Reliance, comradarie, friendship – in battle, all such strengths become weakness."

Imial opens his mouth to speak, but before the words can leave his lips, a great roar of horror rises in the Haradrim ranks.

A blow is struck. Another. The dark-cloaked lord of the Nazgûl stumbles, and the world seems for a moment to hold its breath.

And then, silently, horrifically silently, the figure crumbles away to nothing. Slack-jawed, Imial and Nitin exchange glances. None will mourn the passing of a creature whose very presence made the flesh crawl and the hairs on the back of every neck rise, but it stands testament to the fragility of victory.

The last barrier of terror is broken; the indestructible wraith is destroyed. What, then, of their indestructable army?

"A bloody dawn," the Mendean repeats softly, his voice low with horror.

Ashk does not argue.

"A bloody dawn, a troubled day," Gamba agrees quietly, lowering his eyes. "Yet we have the advantage of numbers, and our brothers of Umbar come soon to break these walls. Perhaps we can still turn this day to good."

"They come!" Corba's voice, loud and rumbling, shouts from the next column. And indeed, the Northerners gallop on towards the massed ranks of Harad, led now by a young man, hair shining as pale and golden as a desert sandstorm.

"They come!" The roar is taken up by the whole army, and blades flash silver and bronze as they are unsheathed. Ducking under Imial's arm, Ashk leaps to fling his blades, one, two; they whistle overhead, thudding inches from each other in the neck of a Northern horse.

But the wave of Northerners is inexorable, and they cut through the Haradrim ranks like lightning.

"The mûmakil!" Imial finds himself shouting. "Horses fear the mûmakil!"

All around the great army, men shout the same or similar. _The mûmakil! _Last hope, last standpoint now against the fell rage of the Northerners.

"I see too little of the blood of cruel kings," Nitin tells Imial grimly, firing crimson-fletched arrows over his shoulder as he flees, "and all too much of the blood of our own."

"We have them three to one," Imial reminds him, his own black-fletched arrows joining those of the Mendeans as they reach the great mûmakil. But his voice is shaking slightly, and the tip of his next arrow wavers as he notches it to his bow.

"No!" Nitin's voice is excited, jubilant. "Twenty to one at least. Look!"

"The storm rolls onwards," Babo murmurs reverentially, a tired smile spreading across his face. "We have them!"

A distant thunder on the far horizon becomes a roar, a shout of a thousand tongues and voices. Cresting the hills, in a mass of black and crimson and gold, comes salvation.

A thousand men of Ania, dark-skinned and tall, with bladed discuses and double-edged swords, and Ashk whoops in chorus with them, throwing himself forwards into the fray.

A thousand men of Zige, their skin black as coal, bearing their yellow-striped spears and serrated blades, and with a grim smile, Babo reverses his own spear and follows Ashk.

And then, rushing towards the Northerners like a sandstorm, gold braids flashing bright in the pale Northern dawn, the desert men. Scimitars flash, banners are raised, and in a ripple of crimson, the crash is like thunder.

"Al-Sina be our guide," Imial murmurs, heart swelling with pride, and slings his bow and quiver back over his shoulder, drawing his scimitar in a hiss of steel.

"Don't pray to a star that isn't even out," Nitin says lightly, nudging him as he closes his hand around his own sword. "The men of Harad will guide themselves this day."

Imial would reply, but before he even opens his mouth, the Northerners are upon them, and he is fighting in earnest, with no time to talk and no time to think. He finds himself eye-to-eye with one of the pale men, a dark-haired swordsman no older than him, matching blow-for-blow every strike aimed at him. But he sees fear reflected in the other boy's eyes, and he finds himself unwilling to make the final blow.

Nitin is at his back, striking out at another armoured Northerner. Nearby, Gamba and Babo fight back-to-back themselves, the one-armed Yaran wielding his sword with a dexterity that belies his imbalance. Ashk fights like a demon a few feet away, whirling and ducking and roaring, battle-fire dancing at the back of his eyes. Black Mendean arrows thud around them, finding marks wherever they can.

The mûmakil trumpet loudly, spiked feet crashing against the ground, and Imial is reminded sharply, painfully, of Mahoomed; Mahoomed who loved the beasts, who dreamt always of riding with them, who had met his death among them.

With a wordless roar, he dives forwards, and in the sudden savagery of his attack, barely notices that the Northerner is dead; he goes on hacking at his foe until the lifeless body falls in pieces around his feet, then he whirls to match swords with the next attacker. His scimitar screeches, steel on steel, and crashes like thunder.

The seconds stretch on. He has no idea how they stretch on. It could be minutes, or hours, or days before the Northerners turn, breaking ranks, and flee.

"Umbar!" Gamba shouts triumphantly, driving his sword into the belly of a feebly twitching Northman. "Umbar comes!"

The roar of triumph is deafening, the thunder of footsteps earthshaking. New passion surges in the hearts of the Southerners, and as the black-sailed ships sail serenely on down the river, Imial finds himself swept up in a tide of warriors as the entire army of millions thunders forwards to clash once more against the hated North.

The Northerner with hair like sand has been driven back to the green hills, and there he strikes his banner; a white horse, rearing to crush the serpent of a free people. But the Haradrim will not be crushed again.

They thunder forwards like daybreak, bright and inexorable, and the light flashing from shields and swords and spears ten times outdoes the pale Northern sun.

But the pale-haired Northerner is laughing, merry, unafraid, tossing his own sword bright and flashing into the air. Ten times a thousand eyes turn to follow his.

"Treachery!" The cry splits the air, and in that moment, no man can say whose cry it is. But it is taken up by a thousand throats, as a thousand hopes crash down around them.

_Treachery! Treachery! Now for the bloody dawn!_

From the bows of the formost ship unfurls a banner most thought never to see. The white tree of the North stands cold on the dark field, and the stars around it glitter with a fell light. It is the standard of the cruelest kings of the cruel North; the standard of a conqueror who brought all Harad to its knees. It is a standard seen only in tales, and it brings profound horror with it.

But no horror is there like that which steps from its decks. Foremost among them is a tall man, tall as the men of Harad, who seems to bear a crown of white fire on his brow. His eyes are grey and cold, entirely without mercy, and reflected in them is a bloodline leading back to the conquering kings of tales.

Behind him comes the darkest tide; roaring and thundering, a terror more profound than any brought by the screeching, wheeling Nazgûl. It seems almost to come in the shape of men, like an army of a hundred thousand spears, but borne in silence, and the silence is worse than the sound.

The Haradrim reel back from it, parting wild with terror, courage and honour fighting in their minds with the baser instinct that calls them to flee. Through the sudden press of bodies, inches from the slashing blades of the Northerners, Imial sees Ashk, and horror and pity sweep over him more strongly than ever. The Ania boy is weeping soundlessly, face pale, eyes and mouth wide. The blades he holds clatter in his shaking hands, as he raises them as if to protect himself.

He looks every inch the child he is, and Imial remembers with a stab that he is, after all, only eleven. And he will die here, they will all die here, far from home. Beaten and defeated.

And he is only a child. It is obvious now; the sheer terror in Ashk's eyes has stripped away all illusion of adulthood, and he stands there, small and alone in a press of men, a thousand miles from all he should be.

Imial finds tears starting to his own eyes at the thought.

But it is as it must be. He is raising his sword, ready to do battle, to send the Northerners down with him, when a strong hand grabs his shoulder. Another catches hold of Nitin, beside him.

They turn as one, fists closing around their swords, to find Corba's bear-like form towering over them. His face is white beneath the tan, his dark eyes blurred too with tears, but he has the knife of the General of Harad clasped firmly in his hand.

"This must return to Harad," he tells them hoarsely, pulling them back from the rapidly falling front line. "It cannot fall into the hands of the North!" Clenching his jaw, he pushes the knife into Imial's hands; long, curved, and engraved, the hilt worn smooth by the hands of a thousand Haradrim chieftains, it lies heavy in the young man's grip, a solid hope for their people.

"But we have to fight! We have to..." Imial begins, voice trembling, and glances back to the Northern lines.

"You have to live." Gamba forces his way through to them, his voice low. "For Harad. For all of us. Somebody must return to Harad, somebody must live. Else, we may as well not have fought at all."

Imial's throat swells with words. He wants to spit them out; to say how he would rather die, how he will not be the coward, how honour is more important than life. But before he can open his mouth, Nitin grabs his arm.

"If you won't," the Mihilman says deliberately, plucking the knife out of his hands, "then I will."

Imial glances back, at where Ashk's bloodied body is already lost to view, and his throat closes with tears. He holds them back. He will not cry!

"We will," he says, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, and clenches his fists. "We will take it home."

Corba nods, and Gamba nods, and behind them both, Babo smiles grimly, sadly. The day is lost, and they all know it.

"We will watch your back," Babo tells them gruffly, dropping the broken haft of his spear and drawing his jagged-edged sword.

Pushing the precious knife into his belt, Imial nods, blinking away the tears that threaten to spill. "I will send word of this day," he promises, his voice deep and heavy with unspoken words, then turns and runs, dropping his sword, his shield, his bow; he needs them no more.

He looks back over his shoulder as he dives from the riverbank, Nitin close behind, and sees them one last time, as the Northerners fall on them. There is no honour there, no hope of shelter. They are trapped and alone. They are not fighting for Harad, nor for freedom, nor for their people. They stand there alone.

Fighting for their lives.


	6. Epilogue: Fighting For The Future

**Epilogue**

"Is that... is that water?" Nitin asks hoarsely, his tongue darting hesitantly across lips as dry and cracked as the ground beneath them.

"Could be..." Imial coughs, his feet dragging along the packed earth. "Could be... mirage..."

"Thought... Al-Sina... were supposed to know..." There is a ghost of a smile on the Mihilman's face.

"Thought... Mihilae... were..." Imial counters, working his lips in and out in a desperate attempt to leech a little moisture out of the air.

"Bloody... stargazers." Nitin smiles properly this time, albeit briefly. "'S... 's water... think 's water..."

It is.

Only a shallow pool, barely ankle-deep, caught in the shade of a large rock, but it is water. Forgetting all else, they scramble to it, falling flat on their faces at the side of the puddle and gulping down the dusty water.

"Very graceful," Nitin remarks, when he is finished, raising an eyebrow and sitting up as Imial splashes water into his mouth with both hands, gulping it down as though he could never have enough. And he feels as though he never could; they have travelled for nearly three days since their water ran out, and his throat feels as dry as sand.

"Hypocrite," he retorts at last, sitting back on his heels and gasping for breath. The pool has almost halved in depth, and with a sigh of regret, he licks the drops of moisture reverentially away from his swollen lips and unties his empty flask from his belt.

Nitin says nothing, only laughs hoarsely and lowers his own flask into the shallow water.

They sit in the shade of the rock for hours, feeling the strength seep back into their limbs as they eat and drink for the first time in what feels like forever. They have fled far from the battlefield in the Northern lands, and far from the green, verdant fields. Now they lie in the dying light in the place the Northerners call South Gondor, and the Haradrim call simply _Shal-Shayol_ – the home of death.

It is all too easy to see how it earned that name.

If the deserts of Harad are harsh, Shal-Shayol is ten times worse. Nothing lives here. Nothing moves. Even the ground stays resolutely solid compared to the shifting sands of Harad, but the dust storms are as bad or worse than anything either of the Haradrim has faced before. The skies are clear, cloudless and dull, burning overhead without shelter, but that is not what worries them; travelling alone is unfamiliar, but both Nitin and Imial are desert-dwellers by birth and breeding, and they know what to expect. The worst is that there are no secrets here. No rolling dunes that might hide a city, an oasis, a caravan; here, there is only flat, cracked earth, dry and merciless as fire.

"Do you suppose any of them survived?" Imial asks quietly, as the sun begins to set and they haul themselves upright into the dry, merciless cold of the night.

Nitin lowers his eyes. "It would be a miracle if they had," he says frankly, as they turn their backs on the faintest glimmerings of water that remain. "But we can always hope for miracles."

And there will always be miracles.

Tomorrow, there will be shade.

Days later, there will be water again.

Not long after that, there will be a hermit. A caravan. A town.

In time, there will be the border. Two weary pilgrims, returning to a shattered country. There will be a city. There will be a parting of ways.

For Nitin, there will be a new life. A travelling life. There will be hopes, and loves, and a life beyond this.

For Imial, there will be a new world. There will be another city, and a girl, and a wedding. Far from this battered place, there will be happiness. In time, a son, Zafar. A daughter, Amnur. There will be glories, and honours, and a future beyond this.

Some day, there will be a future for all Harad.

But for now, they can only keep walking, under the bright desert starlight, and keep on hoping for miracles.


End file.
